


A Fang of Adamant

by SecretSideAccount



Category: Mark Gatiss - Fandom, Michael Sheen - Fandom, Underworld (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anyways, Atlas - Freeform, Blood, Bottom Lucian, Bottom Mark Gatiss, Dominant Atlas Fairbairn, Dominant Trans-Male Character, Dry Sex, Full Moon, How Do I Tag, I think that's it - Freeform, I'm Sorry, Inspired by Underworld (Movies), Kinda, London 1868, Lycans, M/M, Mama Marian is a badass, Michael Sheen - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, OH BY THE WAY, Original Trans-Male Character, Painful Sex, Pillow Princess Mark Gatiss, Porn With Plot, RPF but not only, Sex in the woods, Shameless Smut, Size Kink, Smut, Submission, Submissive Lucian, Submissive Mark Gatiss, Top Atlas Fairbairn, Top Trans-Male Character, Trans Male Author, Trans-Male Character with Cis-Male Anatomy, Vampires, Violent Sex, Weird Underworld/Reality/Doctor Who Crossover, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves, Yearning, a bit - Freeform, at least a little, because Lucian, but not really, but technology is advanced, eating ass, i mean how do werewolves fuck, i still forgot more tags, it works because technology, it's for a friend, kinda at least - Freeform, moon water, or Magic, sometimes you just don't want to mind all that bullsheent, this is a very specific fanservicy thing let me live, werewolves and vampires are enemies - again, who knows - Freeform, witchcraft kinda exists?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25188463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretSideAccount/pseuds/SecretSideAccount
Summary: In 1868 in an alternate universe that a certain alien named the Doctor accidentally interfered with, reality and fiction are merged in a steampunk-ish London society,  and Lucian and Mark Gatiss are tied by destiny through Detective Atlas Fairbairn, who has a Halloween night to remember.
Relationships: Lucian (Underworld)/Original Male Character, Lucian (Underworld)/Original Trans-Male Character, Mark Gatiss/Ian Hallard, Mark Gatiss/Original Male Character, Mark Gatiss/Original Trans-Male Character
Kudos: 3





	A Fang of Adamant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PeverellSlytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeverellSlytherin/gifts).



Atlas Fairbairn was a young detective in Victorian London. Except it wasn’t quite the Victorian London we know. The universe Atlas lived in was…let’s say, all the same but wildly different. Due to some incident related to an infamous alien known as the Doctor, the Earth Atlas was one of round about 1.5 billion inhabitants of had come in contact with Alien life about two hundred years prior to the Earth we know and love, had _acknowledged_ said coming into contact, and its humanity had done the one thing it arguably does best: adapt. The Victorian Era we are looking at was something that, from our perspective, Steampunk would probably come closest to describing. There were aircrafts, but simultaneously carriages pulled by robotic horses had really come into fashion since First Contact. Some areas of science were as underdeveloped as they were in our Earth’s Victorian Era, while others were further evolved than what we know on our Earth today. Thus, times were…different, but no less dark. Dozens of lives were lost daily in sweatshops, between cogwheels and rails, as well as in sinister alleys and possibly haunted forests. Life was hard, smoky, bloody and mostly twilit – and Atlas Fairbairn was right in the middle of it. What few people knew was that he had a secret at least as big as some of those he was deployed to uncover. He knew to hide it well, and living in a narrow, murky city like London at the time definitely did its part, but sometimes, he picked up a scent that no human could ever possibly have noticed, or, just when the light fell the right – or wrong – way, or the moon was especially round and bright, one might have seen his otherwise greyish eyes flicker into a wild, glowing green, indicating the wolf asleep in him.

Atlas Fairbairn was a werewolf.

Now, as you may or may not know, werewolves aren’t quite as uncommon as people like to believe. Only that most of them, especially those who were turned at a fairly young age, have learned – and often been _taught_ – to control their powers. Something as simple as a phial of water, exposed to the unbarred light of the full moon for at least three hours and harvested before the sun could touch it, and drunk before the night of the next full moon, could allow a werewolf such as Atlas not to be forced to turn at the sight of the full moon, and to instead have control over his powers and use them in any which way he liked.

Atlas for his part had been turned at the tender age of thirteen months. Both his parents had been killed in the attack, and it had later turned out that all civilians killed that night – there had been so many as eight of them – had been mere casualties in a war that had been raging for centuries between two ancient clans that resided in the city’s underworld: werewolves and vampires. All he had left of that night was a scar behind his right ear and a strange, metal-looking tooth that he’d been told to always keep safe by the one who had raised him; in his eyes nothing but a useless, gloomy heirloom of two people he couldn’t even remember. He had been taken in by a mysterious woman who resided in a remote, dark lane by the side of the Thames where only the light-shy folk dared to visit. Her name was Marian, and she was as much feared as she was revered. She had made her name as a powerful seductress, but rumour had it that she had magical abilities as well. On the rare occasions that she left her residence, she need not fear the opposition of a single entity with a name in the whole of London. Tales went that she had been one of the leaders of the Sunlight Revolution, the revolution of BIPOC factory workers, which had been the first in a row of revolutions that led up to the Revolution of the Children, but the last of these had been almost half a century ago, so these tales were traded as mere urban legends by now, since Marian did not look a day over forty. Since the Revolutions, society had taken more than just one wrong and backward turn, and Marian had almost become a myth herself, now living in seclusion in her house that seemed tiny, poor and dilapidated as any other in the alley, and for the last now almost twenty-five years, she had lovingly raised Atlas as though he was her own child. It was thanks to her and her alone that he was now a master over his powers and not his powers over him. On the inside, her house was like a brilliant shell, a snail house, but huge and as though hewn from moonstone, and in its very centre, a well sprung from the ground that gathered all the light in it that the curling walls refracted, and it was the water of this well that kept Atlas in dominance over the wolf in him and allowed him to only use his strengths, without falling victim to the weaknesses of his condition.

At age twenty-three, Atlas had first become involved in a murder case, and had, at the time a blacksmith apprentice, single-handedly (or should I say, single-nosedly) solved it and brought a four-time serial killer behind bars. And even now, he remembered the very first time he had felt that this was his true calling; it had not been the sight of the cruelly murdered victims, or the smell of guilt on their murderer, or the anticipation of glory. It had been the moment the private detective on the case back at the time, had held out his hand to him, his lapis lazuli eyes shimmering in the lantern light by the nightly Thames, and said:

“Gatiss is the name. Mark Gatiss. Private detective. This is the fourth in a week. I really don’t know where to go on from here.”

The case had been closed a day later, the murderer caught, and Atlas had a desk in Gatiss’ office – all thanks to his fine-tuned senses. Gatiss had with immediate effect fired his former assistant and hired Atlas instead. The job with Gatiss earned him thrice as much as his apprenticeship, offered him a chance to still his thirst for adventure and danger – and yet, that was never for one second why he stayed. It was that helplessness that he had seen in the private detective’s eyes the night they’d first met, and the wish to never see it return to them – except, as it were, in a very specific situation that had nothing whatsoever to do with crime, apart perhaps from the fact that Atlas thought that it was borderline criminal that even now, after almost three years of working with the man, it had still not occurred. Because the situation was this: Atlas was absolutely wild for Gatiss.

Unfortunately for him, they didn’t work alone. The third member of their secretive little party was a mysterious, dark woman named Irene Raven. Right from the very beginning, Atlas had harboured weirdly conflicting feelings for her; she had antagonised him from the start, had made it very clear she didn’t want him there, but regardless of that, he couldn’t smell her, as in _she had no scent_ , which was not something Atlas had been aware of being possible before, but he also couldn’t smell her as in _he couldn’t stand her presence_. It was something odd in her aura, but Atlas had never been able to reach beyond that diffuse perception of disturbance. At the same time, if she had asked, he wouldn’t have pushed her out of bed. There was something absolutely intriguing, dangerous and insolubly mysterious about her, even for him – and apparently, all the more for Mr Gatiss. Atlas was almost certain that, however well they attempted to keep it hidden, they were having an affair. An affair it must be, because even if he never talked about it, Gatiss must be married; he always wore a wedding band on his finger for all to see, and often, after weekends, had a scent about him that was not his own that he had about him during the week, at the office. About that scent, too, there was something…strange – as well as about the fact that he always seemed older, wearier and paler when he returned than when he left work, which, however, Atlas figured might be a reason for the affair – but even Atlas’ canine nose wasn’t enough to sniff out what. That was, until the events on All Hallows’ Eve 1868.

There was a thick, heavy full moon hanging over the wispy-clouded London skyline. The city was emitting its usual gruesome night time screams, but there was something on the air unlike any other night Atlas had spent working at Gatiss’ office. They had, all three of them, a habit of working nights, which for Atlas was natural due to his disposition. The night sharpened his senses, made him keener, stronger. But with the other two, he had never quite been able to figure out what their motifs were for solving their cases through the small hours. While Atlas also tended to do all investigations that allowed it during darkness – it was so much more inconspicuous, secretive, and, in all honesty, exciting – and he knew that Irene was wont to do the same, Gatiss himself seemed to avoid leaving the house at least past midnight. Neither of them went home except on weekends – another quirk that their trade required as much as it worked to its advantage – but this time, despite it being Saturday, something had kept them all up, here. A very specific something. Over the past three days, half a dozen corpses had been found in and around London; two mauled, gutted and maimed beyond recognition in a ditch by a road leading north, out of the city, through where the forests began; one floating on the Thames, with strange bite marks on its neck, and almost utterly drained of blood; and the other three in pieces that had to be reassembled like macabre puzzles, their single parts scattered through the sewers underground, each of their torsos impaled on wooden poles, their skins translucent and their flesh…an anomaly, all blood in their bodies dried up, their veins collapsed for what looked like centuries, although that was, of course, impossible – and all of their heads unobtainable. But the strangest thing of all, perhaps, had been that only the corpse from the river had been claimed and found to be that of a person announced as missing. Atlas however had been restless already before. Mama Marian, as he called her, had never been just like a mother to him. He had spent all his conscious life in her care, and yet he knew almost nothing about her. He was aware, deep down, that she was beyond human. He knew what there was to the myths surrounding her. She was more like a goddess than simply a woman, and many shady men who had entered her sleeping quarters had never left them again. She was like the sun and moon had they been one big luminary; she could be fiery and alluring, and sweet like a summer flower; and she could also be cold and cruel, calm and cunning, beautiful to a degree that was terrifying; but more than anything, she was strong. The preceding weekend, she had had her omen eyes, black like a foreboding of the timeless void, and she had spoken but three words to Atlas:

“Beware the Raven.”

With them, she had given Atlas his elixir for the coming moon, and had withdrawn into her chamber. Even the elixir looked strange this time, not like simple water from the well; something shimmered in it that, had it been up to Atlas to explain, was not from this world.

Then came the murders.

And then came Hallowe’en.

And that was when for the first time, something seemed absolutely wrong.

As Big Ben struck midnight from across the river, Gatiss stepped out of his office.

“I need to head out. Now.”

His voice had the same general timbre that it always had, soft and elegant, and grown into this city like ivy grew into an iron fence, but there was something underneath it like the night that they’d first met. Fear. Gatiss never went out past midnight.

“Where’s Irene?”

“Absent”, Gatiss replied curtly, yet there was something in his answer that almost implied that her absence was the reason for Gatiss’ unrest.

“I didn’t see her leave?” Atlas questioned.

“Neither did I. She said no word. Her door was locked from the inside. The key gone. Her window was shut tight. And yet, she is not there.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“That’s what I would think. Still, there is no trace of her.”

Atlas felt an odd shiver run down his spine and make his neck hair stand on end. He reached for his leather jacket and slung it over his broad shoulders.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Gatiss hooked his walking-stick umbrella into the crook of his arm and went ahead. A draught rushed past him as the door fell shut, and they stepped out into the dim lantern light. A rush of unprecedented anger, out of nowhere, rolled down his back. And suddenly he remembered. Something, perhaps its odd shine, had made him put off drinking his elixir to the very last moment, and that moment was _now_. He reached for the phial in a hidden inside pocket of his jacket that Mama Marian had expressly sewed in for him to keep his crystal glass ampulla in – and found it gone. And then it happened. The moon, pale and huge and full, emerged from behind a shroud in the violet night sky, falling right on Atlas. He could suddenly see temperature, like an infrared camera; could see shapes moving beneath the earth, stronger than he usually could; could see human-looking shapes that were indistinct and without any heat signature; and suddenly, he knew that _smell_ that had been as though behind an impenetrable curtain until now. The last thing he managed to consciously say was:

“Gatiss – run!”

Then it happened. His eyes burned up green, a wordless, screaming pain ran up his back, arching his spine, together with another, stronger wave of wrath, and the next thing he saw after whiting out were his own, huge, clawed paws. He let out a marrow-freezing roar. Suddenly, it all made sense. The strange familiarity; the scents; the corpses. He had been amidst this before, almost a quarter of a century ago. It had cost him his parents and a normal life. The ancient war between the Lycans and the Vampires had risen once again.

But there was Gatiss, still there right beside him, his face bleak with terror as he stared at Atlas, spellbound. And yet there was the strangest thing – Atlas felt nothing but an overwhelming, almost strangling love for him, his Mark; he was his, his alone, his to protect, and if anyone tried to harm him, the next thing they would feel was the warm dribble of their intestines down their legs. He had never, ever in the entire 24 years of his life so far felt anything as strong as this. If anyone had ever said they would tear the world apart for someone – he knew in this moment that he meant it. And he knew so much more.

That non-existent scent on Irene – that was because it was too subtle on her even for Atlas’ nose to detect. Dead organisms exempt from the process of decay didn’t usually emit any smell at all. And Irene Raven was just that; dead. A vampire.

And that odd post-weekend smell on Gatiss – that had been what happens when you spend time among vampires as a living, breathing human being. Atlas glared up at the moon, and as though it held a collective wolf memory, he suddenly knew all the rest as well, even things that he never could have known. Mark’s spouse had died sometime in the course of those two clans’ relentless war, perhaps even on the same night as Atlas’ parents. A long time ago, Mama Marian had told him about that war, about the customs of werewolves and vampires, and that both species were relentless, cold killers and torturers who killed for the mere enjoyment and the rush of blood, as well as the taste of it. Atlas, although his body was now that of a wolf for the first time in his life, felt barely any of those influences; instead, his mind was clearer and sharper now than ever, as well as his senses and his memory. One whiff of Mark’s, who was still standing there, rooted as before – or perhaps only seconds had passed, that Atlas couldn’t tell, his sense of time, too, worked differently now, with his mind so indefinitely faster – was enough to tell him that unlike he’d always surmised, his partner had never been a woman. Mark had loved a man, and that man had been killed by a vampire, and that vampire had been – Irene. But how…? His mind was working, working, faster than ever before, along with all his other senses. There was more that Mama Marian had told him. Vampires enslaving humans, using them as living blood preserves, against a price, until the end of their life. But what price could…oh. Atlas’ heart sank. Death. Death must have been the price. To not turn Mark’s beloved husband into a monster but to kill him instead, quickly, painlessly, Mark had pledged their life to them. And Irene was and had always been the one holding him to his word. That was why she was around. That was why she hated Atlas. He meant danger. He might not have been much of a werewolf until now, but that part of him had only been dormant. To her, he was still the enemy; always had been. That was where it had come from, that strange, repulsed attraction on Atlas’ part; it had never been a desire for her body, but a quiet, simmering lust for her blood. He looked at the moon again and was suddenly overcome by a wave of visceral, painful memories; two faces that he knew were his parents’, dying, ripped open by a monstrous wolf, but even as they lay dying, a shape attacked the wolf, the shape of a woman he knew better than any other in this world – Mama Marian, her dark skin gleaming blue against the night, wielding a moonlight-mirroring blade, ramming it into the monster’s maw, and splitting off one of its razor-like, metallic-glistening teeth. Mechanically, Atlas’ paw flew to his chest, where, on a wide silver chain, the tooth still hung. His ears rang with a voice, so distant and yet excruciating it might have been the moon’s own, that was saying: “This tooth has stolen from you, now it shall steal for you, forevermore”. And with that strange prophecy, he knew. He knew all he needed to know. There was just one more thing – or two, quite astonishingly, yes, there were two. The first one was Irene. He could still smell her on his jacket that now hung in shreds from his muscular torso, she had stolen his phial from him right from under his nose, when he and Mark had already decided to go looking for her. Of course, she was capable of turning invisible, as well as walking through walls. She was also extremely fast – and scentless to Atlas’ human-form nose. Mark had probably not decided to inform Atlas of her absence because he missed her; rather because he knew that with her missing unannounced, something had to be awry. And as always, he had been right. And that was where the last thing came in – Mark’s very own scent, right now. Yes, he was scared and sweaty and his heart was racing – but not only for fear. There was a very subtle other scent about him, barely noticeable but still there – serotonin. Dopamine. Oxytocin. He was standing there, eyes fixed on Atlas – and he felt excitement and…love. Atlas came down on all fours, the moon suddenly no more than another dim lantern in the sky, and stepped, almost crawling, as unintimidating as possible and what he hoped looked like puppy eyes, towards Mark, head bowed, neck exposed, submissive – for now, just to show him he would never, ever hurt him. Mark still looked absolutely terrified – but the closer Atlas came, the more the terror made room for respect, and the respect, as Atlas placed his snout softly from below in Mark’s palm, turned into affection. Atlas could smell it on him; affection and excitement. Too much for it to be new. Mark had been in love with him for a while, he was suddenly sure of it; he had just always kept away from him to protect him from Irene. Now it was time for Atlas to reciprocate; to fight for the man he loved.

And he knew exactly what must be done. He could smell both Lycans and vampires on the wind, several of them, not far from here. One of them was Irene; luckily he could still smell his own trace on her. First, he would catch her, kill her, and take his serum from her. Then, he would kill the others. And ultimately, when they’d all been slain and he was the only one left, trembling, tail between his legs, scared and alone – he would see to Lucian, the leader of the Lycans, the one with the adamant teeth; the murderer of his parents.

It did not take him long to find Irene, or to overwhelm her in his wolf shape, despite her still being invisible. The one thing she hadn’t expected was for him to be as fully conscious as he was, despite his werewolf form. He drank in her disgusting death smell one last time, then ripped her head from her neck, but even as he did that, the phial was thrown out of her pocket, flew a few feet far and splintered on the ground. Atlas was terrified as he still saw it flying through the air, Irene’s head between his fangs, impossible to let go of before it shattered, and- wait. The phial was broken, yes – but its content was still there, in the grass, not a liquid, but a crystal. That was why it had looked so strange. Somehow, in her infinite wisdom, Mama Marian had anticipated this, and shaped the elixir into a crystal that he could pick up between his teeth and lick. The tension in his limbs fell off of him; a shudder of relief ran through him as the pain in his overarched spine went away, and moments later he sank to the ground, on all fours, but those fours were human again. And the crystal was still there, unchanged, undiminished, still like a sliver of moonlight below him in the grass. He picked it up, tucked it safely into what was left of his pocket, and made to find more of either pack of monsters – not before, however, he had run a thick branch straight through the centre of Irene’s ribcage. Despite him having his human shape back, for some reason, most of the wolf strength seemed to have stayed, at least for now. Perhaps it was something in the crystal, or maybe it was only like a runner’s high, it didn’t matter as long as the strength was there. And it was – along with his still heightened senses. He found the battle ground of Lycans and vampires, in a pitch-black fir wood not far from where Irene had hidden, their fighting noises thumping dully on the needle-padded ground. They were so caught up in their age-old warring, they didn’t even notice his advance. He charged sideways and ploughed through them like a scythe. Within a quarter of an hour, all but one lay slain, the werewolves’ blood soaking the forest floor, the vampires pinned to it with pointed sticks, their heads stuck on their ends, grimacing terribly. The only one left now was Lucian. Him, he would not kill. Too delicious was even the anticipation of his suffering, too deep his hatred to still it with a single bite. He looked at him and saw, smelled, that Lucian recognised him. He bared his teeth and snarled at Atlas, prowling backwards like a spring waiting to release, but even when he did, Atlas was younger, faster, stronger. He threw himself against the mighty wolf mid-air, and they thundered to the ground, together, rolling over, downhill, as Atlas held him down with his bare hands, squeezing his windpipe shut, drinking in his musk, making him feel fear in a way he’d never felt it before. When they came to a halt at the foot of the hill and Atlas readied himself to pull the tooth from the necklace and sink it into Lucian’s flesh, the older werewolf suddenly stirred again, something giving him new strength, like a tonic, and then suddenly Atlas caught it too, unmistakeably: Mark’s smell, directly behind him. Shit. Why had he followed him?! He was soft, vulnerable, at this point a liability. He wasn’t supposed to come here, ever. Atlas wasn’t even sure how he had found him at all. But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that he smelled Mark’s affection for him, and his anger, his readiness to defend him against a goddamn _werewolf_ , in wolf form, and Atlas had to do everything in his power to prevent that. He shot round and to his feet, tearing at the chain on his neck and screaming at Mark:

“You gotta leave! Leave, now! It’s not safe here! Go!”

That was all he could fit into the time he had to spare before Lucian was onto him. His attack was fast, brutal, but Atlas was still younger, more flexible, and stronger even now. And this time, the tooth was ready, aimed, and in Lucian’s clavicle a split second later. There was a splatter of hot blood that forced Atlas to close his eyes, and the next time he looked, after he had wiped his eyelids, was no longer a huge wolf but a man, naked and dirty and barely taller than himself, writhing in pain on the bed of dry fir needles and moss, clawing with now soft, bloodied fingers alternately at his wound and then at the ground, desperate for something to grasp, to cling to. It was almost pitiful to look at, hadn’t Atlas hated him so much. The man dug his heels into the ground, exposing his groin, gasping with pain. His long hair clung in thick strands to his sweat-covered brow, his beard was crusted with blood and mud, and still he writhed, the pain in his chest beyond that of a normal wound. Atlas was aware of what it was doing to him. A werewolf, stabbed with his own tooth by his enemy, was being submitted to the latter, just like any wolf would submit itself to a stronger opponent, except that this was for good. It made them a servant for life.

It took yet another minute or two for him to finally come to rest. Time enough for Atlas to look around and find that Mark had indeed listened to his word and fled, and oh was he grateful for it. Because despite the fight being over now, Atlas didn’t want him to see what he was about to do next, either. It wasn’t something he had decided beforehand. But the more he saw Lucian stretched out there on the ground, squirming in aftershocks of pain but now complying with his defeat, and slowly settling into the eventual gratitude of having been left alive that any defeated wolf was wont to feel and display, the more he felt the need to dominate him in more than just one way. He hated him still, yes, and he delighted in seeing him suffer, but there was something more; as much as he wanted to dishonour him in any way possible, as much did he actually _provoked_ to do just that by the man himself. By now he lay there completely still, his eyes wet and hazel in the bright moonlight, his bloodied mouth slightly ajar, not showing teeth but tongue, his throat tilted back, like a dog offering his throat in submission, his chest still heaving quietly, still bleeding slowly and thickly from his wound, his stomach taut and covered in smaller scratches and gashes, his knees bent, feet on the ground, legs spread, exposing his bare manhood and ass. Somehow, Atlas wasn’t even surprised when he saw that he was hard. Whether it was a wrath boner or a submission boner or anything in between or beyond, he didn’t care at this point. It was enough. He ripped what remained of his trousers off himself and proceeded towards Lucian.

Atlas had been assigned female at birth, but it had always felt completely wrong for him, and had been something else Mama Marian had taken care of for him. Now he was just like any other man – except, perhaps, bigger than most. Lucian himself wasn’t badly equipped himself, but when he saw Atlas’ thick, heavy cock bobbing between his legs, his mouth fell even further open and he very visibly swallowed and licked his lips, catching his lower lip under a sharp canine tooth that still almost looked like a fang. Atlas noticed that the one on the other side was missing. He stretched just above Lucian until his bones cracked, casting a huge, bulking shadow over the older man, before straddling him at the height of his neck and, without any preamble, grabbing Lucian’s hair at the top of his head and proceeding to fuck his mouth. It was uncomfortable though, to the point of being unsatisfactory; the man’s teeth came dangerously close to his shaft; as thick as Atlas was, he had trouble getting Lucian’s lips stretched far enough at all. So he discontinued after only a few thrusts, pulled out with a brutal yank at Lucian’s hair, let his hand trail down his face and neck as he slid down his body, intentionally grazing the tooth still stuck below his clavicle, which made the older man let out a sudden, high-pitched, pained yelp. Atlas smirked viciously, staring Lucian square in the eye, who was crying by now, muttered “shut up”, backhanded him rather sloppily across the face and crawled further down his body, until he scooted over the older man’s erection that lay almost flat against his hairy abdomen, letting it bob out again between his thighs, brushing against Atlas’ balls and cock as he released it at the front. Then he stooped straight down and licked along the werewolf’s veiny length before taking it in one hand and swallowing it straight down. Up above, an overwhelmed gasp escaped the older man that made Atlas grin grimly around his girth. Lucian’s cock was thick, but not very long, and Atlas had absolutely no problem taking him deep enough to make him hit the roof of his throat. Meanwhile he lowered a hand to his own cock to stroke himself to full hardness before letting Lucian’s penis slip from his mouth, gathering some of the spit and sweat and precum that had dribbled down into his dense, wiry pubic hair, spreading it down across his hole, circling it a few times before dipping in first one, then two fingers. Then he lifted Lucian’s legs from the ground, doubled him up against the mossy hillside, caging him with his arms left and right, and rammed into him in one thrust. The friction was extreme almost to the point of pain even for Atlas; Lucian just let out a barking scream and fell into a heavy breathing pattern when Atlas went right on to pulling almost all the way out and thrusting back in again. The tightness made him dizzy for a second as he sank back in for the second time and plastered himself against the undersides of Lucian’s thighs, grappling at his knees for leverage before he pulled back out and settled into a hard, fast pace that had flesh slapping against flesh until hands weren’t enough anymore to keep Lucian’s sweat-slippery knees in place, and Atlas sank his short, sharp fingernails into his skin, not relenting in his rhythm, just pushing himself impossibly deeper into his inferior. Atlas’ cock dragged heavily across his prostate every time he pulled back out of Lucian, and every time he went back in, it was yet a little deeper, a little harder, a little more violent. Eventually, even nails weren’t enough to keep the man’s legs up, shaking as they were, and Atlas let them go, thumping heavily to the ground as he continued to pound into his hole, balls-deep. At this point, Lucian was shaken by Atlas’ every thrust, spread out limply on the forest floor as he took the victor’s cock willingly, each time he drove back in pushing a weak moan from Lucian’s lungs. Suddenly, Atlas stopped completely, spread the puddle of precum that had pooled at the base of Lucian’s dick up his painfully hard, twitching shaft and started to roughly jerk him off, his cock still in him to the hilt, until Lucian started trembling and panting and then came with a series of fucked-out cries all over Atlas’ hand and his own stomach. He was still shaking and spilling when Atlas went back to pounding his now over-sensitive hole, faster and shallower with each thrust until he was only rocking against the older man’s prostate. Lucian was already, or still, gasping for breath above, his cock, which ranked in no way behind the rest of his body in terms of stamina, still deep red and hard, when Atlas pulled himself up, digging his fingers into the forest floor and then into Lucian’s neck, cutting off his windpipe as he went into a few last, pointed, brutal thrusts and then came with a gasping shout, blowing his load deep inside Lucian, marking him up as his submissive from now on. He pulled out, leaving the werewolf gaping and dripping and still as hard as before, dragging himself up his body until he was facing him. Lucian’s chest was still heaving, and his face was tear-stained and desperate, but in a way that was begging Atlas for more.

“You wish, filthy mongrel”, Atlas murmured thickly, pressing his flat hand once more against the base of Lucian’s neck as the other reached for the tooth, digging his fingers into the bloody flesh and pulling out the crescent object while the victim let out one last cry that was soon muffled by Atlas’ hand over his mouth.

“Shut up.”

He came to his feet and gathered up his torn trousers from the ground, wrapping them around his waist as best he could before turning to find that Lucian still hadn’t moved.

“Up!” he shouted at him, walked back up to the werewolf and dug his hand into his hair, which finally made him scramble to his feet. “Good boy”, Atlas muttered, but it was still more a mean scowl than praise. “Time to get you a collar, huh?” Atlas gave Lucian a malicious smile and let it wander down his body, finding with enormous satisfaction that the older man was still carrying an angry, weeping erection that bobbed against his stomach with every step.

“Where are you taking me?” was the first actual thing Lucian ever said to Atlas after they had walked for a while.

“Home”, replied Atlas curtly.

Barely anyone saw as their two sullied, bare figures made their way through the nightly London, all the way back to Mama Marian’s house. There, Atlas opened the door and hauled Lucian inside by the neck, hurling him to the ground right in the entrance.

“Wait here; Mama Marian will take care of you. I believe you remember her, don’t you, murderer?”

Atlas threw one last glance at Lucian, pulling out the fang, and slowly licked a bit of blood off it before turning and heading to his room.

Less than half an hour later, he re-emerged, washed, cleaned and freshly dressed. When he exited the door, Lucian was no longer there, and nowhere visible. Atlas smirked darkly to himself and went on his way.

When he nocked at Gatiss’ office door, it was opened so immediately as though the man had stood directly behind it.

“Atlas!” was all he said, but his voice melted away like syrup on the tongue, and his eyes told Atlas everything he needed to know. So did his nose. Never in his life had anyone been so glad and relieved to see him again.

“Mr Gatiss”, he replied, making to relieve himself of his heavy coat.

“Please”, the latter said in an impossibly even softer voice, “finally…call me Mark.”

“With pleasure”, Atlas replied with a small, but undeniable seductive gaze and lip lick up at Mark, who was taller than Lucian, but of a much more delicate nature.

Atlas could already hear him swallow thickly as he looked away again, heading to the office, before Mark gently reached for his arm to stop him short.

“Atlas”, he proposed softly, “why don’t we go…upstairs?”

“There’s an upstairs?”

“You know there is.” Mark was still holding his arm.

“Not that it was yours.”

“It has been. All those years. You know, don’t you?”

“Most of it. I think”, Archie replied as Mark led the way to a narrow, but well-lit staircase and began to ascend it.

“You know about Ian, too, then, I suppose?”

“I was unaware of his name, but yes. I am so sorry.” Atlas meant it.

“Thank you, Atlas. It has been such a long time now. Yet it still hurts.”

“They didn’t let you heal though, now did they?” Atlas inquired while they stepped through one of three doors that opened up from the gallery. Atlas could, through the middle one, see a dimly lit living room with velvety upholstery in it, but that wasn’t the door they were taking.

“No”, Mark admitted quietly. “But that’s over now, isn’t it?” He turned around to Atlas on the heel as they entered the room. “Thanks to you.” The room was a bedroom. In its middle, there was a huge, high four-poster bed covered in shades of pale pink, white and ecru, and Mark sat down on a little pale blue velvet stool right at the foot and leaned back onto the bedsheets on his elbows. His posture was coolly seductive, but his eyes were suddenly almost pleading.

“Please”, he barely breathed, “I’ve waited for so long.”

“I know”, Atlas murmured darkly. “And so have I. Believe me…so have I.”

And Mark looked up at him, head bowed, through his long lashes with his deep blue eyes and asked: “How do you want me, then…Sir?”

But Atlas didn’t reply, he just silently stepped closer and laid a hand on Mark’s flimsy, lightly frilled collar. He wrapped his hand around the man’s cravat and gave it a light tug.

“I want you…just like this…” He slipped his other hand under Mark’s waistcoat and started slowly circling Mark’s small, hard nipple under the silky garment. Then he leaned forward and swallowed the soft moan from the man’s soft pink lips. He claimed his mouth, nibbling on his lips and the corners of his mouth and felt like a parched man in an oasis. “I’ve waited…so long for this”, he growled as he wrapped his arms around Mark and carded his fingers through the man’s hair. He was all pliant and hot and wet like Atlas had dreamt him so many times to be, utter perfection just waiting to be made his very own. Atlas could still barely believe his luck, but there was no time for this. Their mouths and tongues still inseparable, Atlas snuck one hand between their panting bodies and expertly unbuttoned Mark’s waistcoat first, then the silky, rippling shirt underneath, running his fingers through the frills to tease him a little, then finally touching the naked skin of his chest, raking through his chest hair, tracing his collarbone and the supple skin of his neck.

“Lay back”, he muzzled into Mark’s mouth and pushed him down gently onto the duvet. For a moment he sat there above him, just gazing down into his yearning eyes, holding his head in one hand, until it became unbearable to just look anymore. So he fell down back into him, hungrier, more urgent even than before, soon to nibble down along Mark’s jawline and neck until he found his chest and latched onto one of his nipples, eliciting an immediate, needy moan. While one hand crept to play with the second nipple, the other slid down between them and found Mark’s bulge straining hard against the thick cotton of his pinstripe trousers. Atlas opened the buttons slowly, pressing against the flies while doing do, having Mark squirming beneath him already. Atlas bit down on his nipple with a smirk. This was going to be a grand night.

Before long, he had Mark spread out on his back on the bed, gloriously naked and delicate, his cock pressing hard against his stomach, already drooling at the mere sight of Atlas undressing above him, staring greedily down at Mark, not breaking eye contact for a single second, even as he untied his boots. His black dress shirt and waistcoat were already on the floor, revealing his broad, muscular upper body that still bore uncounted scratches from the fight before.

“Oh, Atlas”, Mark muttered, “you didn’t tell me you were hurt.”

“Darling”, Atlas replied soothingly while finally discarding his trousers as well and crawling onto the bed to hover over Mark, “if you think _this_ is hurt, you don’t know what I’ve been through.” And before Mark could inquire more, or get too intimidated by the sight of Atlas’ cock, Atlas sealed his mouth with a deep, claiming kiss, leaving him panting as he broke it, only to lick one long stripe down all his torso, stopping shortly to suck at either nipple again before proceeding and running his hands down Mark’s v-line while he took him in his mouth, so eager to taste as much of him as he could he swallowed right down. Mark let out a strangled gasp.

“Oh god.” He whimpered as Atlas dragged his tongue back up his shaft and began to tease his frenulum. His foreskin was delicate like the rest of him, but wonderful to play with despite his thick, drooling head. Atlas dipped his tongue under the skin and licked off all the precum, which only made Mark’s cock weep more. Atlas grabbed the base with both hands while he bared his teeth, and, while staring right up at Mark, ever-so-slightly grazed his teeth through the dip between his cockhead and his shaft, circled it a little, then went a bit further down, until Mark sounded as though he was about to faint if Atlas carried on. His hands were white-knuckling the bars of the headboard, his entire body tense and trembling, his spine arched up, desperate for as much contact with Atlas as he could get. When the younger man knew Mark couldn’t take any more, he wrapped his lips back around his teeth and swallowed his whole cock again, hollowing out his cheeks and swallowing before he came back up, pulling another overwhelmed cry from Mark’s throat. He pulled off him with a soft pop, then spent several minutes just gently licking around Mark’s tip and playing a little with his balls, now and then sneaking a finger down behind them to press into his perineum. Every time, Mark made a slightly different little noise. Atlas loved how vocal and needy he was; it made him want to claim him even more.

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart”, muttered Atlas when he gave Mark’s cock a break to lick up his abdomen to his navel. “I’m going to eat you up, devour you, ravish you, make you scream…”

With that, he dipped back down to Mark’s dick, and Mark, who had been in the beginnings of forming a jittery reply, “you’re…this is am- oh my _god_ ” – didn’t get to finish it quite the way he wanted to when Atlas swallowed him again while tugging at his balls with one hand, tapping softly against his hole with the other to make it clear what he was after. After releasing Mark’s cock from his throat, Atlas suddenly scooted all the way back up to his face, kissed him deep and hard and muttered still into his mouth:

“Think you’re ready for me, darling?”

“God, yes, _please_ ”, Mark’s voice was hardly more than a breath. “Want you in me so bad.”

Atlas straddled him and let his own cock drag along Mark’s as he kissed him again, then scooted back down, kneeling on his haunches, and commanded in a low voice:

“Turn around. ‘m going to take you from behind.”

Mark breathed in, trembling, swallowed thickly and rolled onto his stomach, spreading his legs, presenting himself to Atlas.

“Your arse looks like a peach, honey”, growled Atlas before he gave it a light smack and doubled up to kiss the spot as it reddened slightly, only to then spread Mark’s cheeks and bury his face between them, circling his tongue around Mark’s hole, then pressing it flat up against it and pushing in past the tight ring of muscles that immediately twitched against his mouth. Atlas pushed in deeper, licked Mark’s walls, tasted him – he was clean as a flower, he actually tasted and smelled slightly of rose water, and the thought of Mark cleaning himself for Atlas, putting scent on _down here_ almost made him lose it. He emerged from between Mark’s thighs, pushed one finger into him instead, his hole still slippery enough with spit, kissed Mark’s stomach a few times while muttering between kisses:

“You’re so…tight…down there, do you have…oil?”

“It’s in the, uh, nightstand”, Mark rambled, regaining his breath and consciousness for a bit before Atlas had reached into the drawer, found a small flacon of expensive, vanilla-scented oil and popped it open, drizzling some of it into his palm and then slowly spreading it across his cock, looking Mark, who had his head turned sideways, in the eye darkly and possessively until the latter blushed a deep red and dug his face into the pillow, squirming. When he felt Atlas touching his arse, he wiggled it a little, teasing him, trying to rub up against him. Atlas wouldn’t be caught in the loving, benevolent smile he gave Mark’s backside before his face darkened again, and he dug his fingers into Mark’s ass cheeks to spread them while rubbing some oil onto his hole with the other. Grabbing his cock at the base, he dragged it across puckered ring of muscle a few times, up and down, until Mark was wincing and keening underneath him and Atlas straightened, lined himself up, and pushed the head of his cock into Mark’s hole. He wanted to go slow, he really did, but it was like it was pulling him in, and as much as he tried, he couldn’t resist sliding all the way into Mark’s hot, tight arse in one smooth thrust. Under him, Mark made a sound as though someone had punched the air out of his lungs, which, in a sense, Atlas had, while he himself let out a relieved sigh, as if he’d just slipped into a hot bath. For a moment, he stayed just like that, his groin flush against Mark’s pale cheeks, to give him time to accommodate the ten inches of hard, throbbing cock inside him. Once he felt Mark relaxing a little, allowing him to slide even a bit further in, he began to move inside him, first rocking in tiny movements against his prostate, then slowly, gently pulling out, stilling a second, before thrusting back in, hard and deep and making Mark arch upward with a punched-out cry. Atlas settled into a slow, grinding rhythm that made sure his cock dragged across Mark’s prostate with every thrust and had him shaking, and soon he fell into steady, high-pitched little “uh – uh – uh” noises. Mark himself didn’t move one bit, he just clung on for dear life, to the bed, to the duvet, to Atlas himself, as the latter took care of him, fucked him so thoroughly that eventually, Mark was constantly on the brink of passing out, especially when Atlas, additionally to pounding his hole at an increasing pace, wrapped his hand back around Mark’s cock and started milking him in time with his hard, still deepening thrusts. Suddenly he let off, turned Mark around, folded him in half, draping his legs over his shoulders, and locked eyes with him before picking up a merciless pace and pinning Mark’s wrists to the bed with his hands while he stared into his soul, silently but for heavy breaths and low grunts on Atlas’ side, while Mark’s eyes were pooling with tears, not of pain but of bliss, and his gaze was transfigured, on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Mark”, Atlas growled while still thrusting, panting, completely covered in sweat; he was doing all the work. “I want you…to come for me. I’ll be counting down from ten, and when I say come, you _will_ come – understood?”

He emphasised his point with an especially hard thrust that had Mark whimpering as he nodded, stammering something unrecognisable while Atlas began, “10”. He grabbed Mark’s dick, which was pressed up flush against his stomach, veins protruding as though about to burst, was burning hot to the touch and leaking precum with each thrust, and pumped his fist around it. “9…8…7…” Atlas’ voice was hardly more than a rasp now. He pulled Mark’s thigh up with one hand so he could fuck into him from above, watch his stomach bulge with his cock as he drilled into him, “6…5…” Mark’s high-pitched noises were now constant, on his breath as he in- and exhaled with difficulty, folded together as he was, “4…3…2…” Atlas gave Mark’s dick an extremely tight stroke, rammed his cock into Mark’s prostate, locked eyes with him again and mouthed, voice completely gone, “come.”

And Mark came, in thick, hot streaks all over his own mouth, chin, chest and stomach, with a cry followed up by quiet, fucked-out whimpers, spurting out seemingly endless strands of cum until Atlas had at last milked even the last drop out of him and collapsed onto him, licking cum from his lips and chin and into his mouth, gathered Mark’s legs together under himself and pressed them together to create an even tighter squeeze for the last few, aching thrusts he made into Mark before he finally came, deep inside Mark and so hard he blacked out for a moment. All his muscles slackened, and he could feel his own hot cum running out of Mark’s hole as he slipped out just the tiniest bit, just to feel that obscene sensation of his cum running down his balls, until he buried himself again all the way inside Mark, wrapped him into his arms, feeling his ribcage heaving under his own, his heart throbbing, and rested his head in the crook of his neck. Like this, he decided, he would stay until the morning broke.


End file.
